Distant Strings
by FFlove190
Summary: Vincent is balancing his life as a human experiment and a high school student. He blocks everyone and everything out: a cold enigma. But then he finds a violin and something begins to thaw.
1. Prologue: Just a Situation

**A/N: **Three things. _First_ thing: This is a high school AU – don't like it, don't read it. _Second_ thing: I'm super horrible at grammar, so just kinda deal with it. _Third_ thing: if this story seems familiar it's because I've scrapped the original and I'm revamping it (the original was godawful. Sorry for anyone who liked the bitchy teenage melodrama without an actual plot, I can send it to you if you really want it).

**Prologue: Just a Situation **

At my age, most teenagers don't even think of the future. They all seem so content with the way their lives are, wasting away the days and their youth. I know because I see them, day in and day out. Squandering away all their potential in apathy.

It wasn't hard to drown in apathy being forced to sit through the inane drone of high school life. I still can't figure out what's more torturous: listening to the drivel that spills from the teachers mouths or undergoing experiments in the lab. I had to re-evaluate every day.

For the first few days, attending high school was a relief. Seeing new things, interacting with new people, all of it was fascinating. Until I realized that over-emotional teenagers were the most annoying creatures I had ever met. If they weren't talking about how they wasted away their hours with a new television show or illicit drug, they were talking about how wrong everyone was for trying to protect them. Sometimes it boiled down into a discussion of dreams. That loud one with the piercing voice wanted to be a writer – but I think she would do better in the military – that quiet one who couldn't even stand up straight wanted to be the next President of ShinRa... the list just went on an on.

Dreams...

What a worthless concept. I know exactly where my future lies. It doesn't sparkle like hope or fill my chest with wonder, as they tell me dreams are wont to do. It's dark, grim, and real. Like a nightmare.

My name is Vincent Valentine. I know exactly why I exist – most of the experiments my age do. We're the next generation of human, Hojo, our creator, likes to call us that. For all his madness, he could at least make tearing flesh open seem interesting; something the biology teacher failed pitifully at. I don't have a number. Even though I'm the first, I don't have a one or even a zero. As I am right now, I worth less than dirt. If I were dismantled and buried somewhere, the few who would notice would only be relieved.

As the next generation of human, I should be in military training – learning, as all the good experiments do, all the ways I can kill and all the ways I can not be killed. Unlike the numbered ones, I have a slight problem. I lose control. The clinical term is schizophrenia; I prefer the mystique of insanity.

For a long time, I couldn't explain the holes in my memory. Holes where I had, apparently, taken a quiet stroll around the compound. It was always quite strange to wake up covered in blood and guts.

Ever since the gauntlet was made, I've been getting them less. I do sometimes hear inexplicable things, but I've chalked it up to hallucinations.

Since further training in the arts of killing was suspended, the scientists weren't quite sure what to do with me. Then, someone made a decision – I should be sent to high school. A high school full of perfectly normal, unmodified, defenseless, human civilians. Given the fact that I;m a defective super-human who periodically just went around killing people, this plan seemed a little flawed; but, who was I to say? The whole point of high school life was to stabilize my mind. So far, it hadn't done anything remotely close to that.

If I were to hazard a guess, I would say it was actually making me stupider if nothing else.

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by – of all things – a person. "Vincent," the teacher said. Her voice, as always, sounded more like a whining animal than anything human. "You know, if you have any problems you can talk to me." I couldn't be bothered to respond. Just because I liked to sit on the plastic chairs after class ended didn't mean I wanted to talk to her – or to anyone. Everyone had learned very quickly, save the teachers. These few moments between classes were my only true moment of peace in the day.

"I know that you're just putting on a brave front and you have a lot going on underneath the surface. But, sometimes you just have to let it go and let the world in. And you - Vincent! Come back here! I'm talking to you!"

I didn't even bother looking back as I walked out the door. The halls were nearly empty, threatening that class was about to start. She doesn't follow me far out the door, but instead keeps calling for me. When I took a cursory glance behind me, I see the teacher hovering by her classroom with her jaw agape looking as if she might _cry_. How pathetic.

I notice she is closer than I remember her being. How did she move that fast? Or had I simply blinked?

I'm distracted by a blinding pain in my arm. Something knocks the wind out of me. Were I anyone else, I might have found the situation odd – doubling over with inexplicable pain. But I'd learned to recognize the sensation for what it was. A prequel to my 'power.' I grit my teeth.

A mutation will start, as it always seems to, in my left arm. It's not painless either. My bones are shifting into an inhuman, but familiar, shape. The muscles distend, trying to reconfigure. But I refuse to let the parasite take over. I imagine my skin hardening. Like a cage, I sought to trap the thing. This was a skill I had managed to pick up in the last few months, but I haven't honed it completely. I can feel the mutation prod around a few times, as if desperately trying to escape. In a few hours I knew that the sensation would settle. And, a few hours from then, it would be gone as if it never was.

"Vincent," her voice was laced with concern and I could hear her heels click as she advanced towards me.

"Leave me be, woman," I hissed at the teacher as she tried to approach me again. She almost bawled. How could anyone become a high school teacher with thin skin like that? "I'm going to the nurse."

With a few of Hojo's prescribed drugs, I was off on my merry little school boy way. The nurse was new, Wutain with a lingering accent. I think the last one was fired for incompetency – she had been known to dole out bandages to students with fevers and taking the temperature of others with cuts. I was sorely tempted by the beds when the nurse offered one, but I knew I couldn't risk it. I would lose control until the drugs took effect; plus the monitors embedded in my skull would take careful note that I had fallen asleep in the middle of the day. I would be sure to get an earful when I got back.

Instead I picked myself up and went to class. Only a few more hours and then I'll be free from the mind-numbing drivel and stuffed back into the lab. Whatever had been planned would probably be out the door. Instead I was going to get the nodes today; it always happened when I nearly transformed. Safety first and all; but it was a real pain in the ass getting strung up and cut open like that.

As I sit down in my class, I wonder if all teachers are trained to give me that pitying and invasive look. It was just the situation I found myself in. I have come to accept it as my life. It didn't mean I liked it; but I accepted it.

**Project**: C

**Subject**: V

Entry: JV-6575

_Subject still exhibits mental instability. The host personality is unreachable and cannot control the creatures. Suggestions on the host personality have been successfully imprinted on subjects no.1 and no. 2. _

_Stabilizers have reduced instances of full-body shape-shifting by 75% and mental alterations by 40%. Shape-shifting is now preceded by a mental alteration 90% of the time. _

_Sensors indicate no transformation triggers are located within the school premises. Theorized that subject attending will strengthen host personality. There is a 50% chance for subject no. 4 to appear. _

_Mental alteration recorded at 09:30:03. Mental signature of subject no. 2 appeared at 09:31:10. Resonance was initiated. Fully contained within thirty minutes. Resonance forcibly terminated at 15:10:25 following standard procedures. _

_No mental signature related to no. 4 has appeared. _

**Project**: J

**Subject**: S0

Entry: JS0-6209

_Subject shows no signs of mental or cellular degradation. Immune system continues to resist infection._


	2. 1: Just a Violin

Chapter 1: Just a Violin

Last night was worse than I expected. As usual, I was conscious for most of the surgery. It's not that I have a morbid fascination with watching my body get torn apart (nor that I'm a masochist as one of the nurses so likes to call me) so much as I want to understand. When others are asking themselves: "who am I?" I'm instead asking "What am I?" I have never been able to successfully locate the research on me and the scientists are hardly the talkative sort. The closest thing I get is watching the procedures. The search for truth gets a trade off at anesthetic and a milder dose of pain killers. But Dr. Hojo is strangely compliant. Whenever he looks up from his work he always talks about the numbers of it. I still haven't been able to figure out exactly what he's talking about. The biology book hadn't helped in the least. Regardless, the surgery had taken longer than I thought it would. I could have sworn that the scientists stopping putting things back into me and started taking them out...

I managed to grow a new layer of skin on the surgical areas. It was both thin and itchy. Delicacy and grace was required in all movements – quite a feat in a school where apathetic students seemed more acquainted with falling over each other than walking sober – lest the healing process be disrupted. I carefully move me elbow away from the flailing girl sitting next to me. It was unfortunate that the desks were shoved together like they were, as both my books and hers ended up meeting the face of a disgruntled jock. In between classes I was forced to bob and weave between the lingering students and jostling bags. It wasn't anything that I hadn't done before; but I've never been completely successful. I did manage to get knocked in the face once; but the damage was minimal.

I was weaving through the overcrowded corridors as usual when I caught site of a suspicious man. Well, as suspicious as any other man with a teacher's badge who wanted to flag me down. I didn't recognize him immediately – the school was large and I hadn't had the terrible honor of meeting all the faculty – but I was loathe to play along. For a teacher, he looked rather unkempt with a scruff of beard and a too-knowing grin. Next class would have been literature and all that hogwash about expressing ourselves. As if that would ever help in the military. I wasn't in any hurry to get there; I might as well waste my time with a suspicious stranger.

The teacher didn't look any less respectable up close. Definitely suspicious. When I got close enough to have a conversation over the clatter of the halls, he spoke. "Hey there. You're Vincent Valentine, ain't you?"

"People typically call me Vincent Hojo nowadays." I managed to keep my voice deadpan. My birth certificate had that name, Valentine, I remember Lucrecia commenting about it once when I was a child. But this was the first time some one had ever called me it. It was strange and a bit unsettling. But it did have a nice ring to it.

The teacher laughed and scratched the back of his head. He didn't seem put out by the comment. "I ain't never met you, but I knew yer pops." He must have seen past my manicured stoicism in order to see my silent question. But I shouldn't give him too much credit. It was probably because I didn't respond instantly. "Grimoire Valentine. Damn – er, darn shame what happened to him... Anyway he sent somethin' to my address ages ago and it's addressed to you."

What was that phrase? Don't talk to strangers? Don't get lured by candy? Stranger danger? I hadn't bothered to listen closely when I was a child as the concept had seemed ludicrous. Who would want to kidnap an experiment like me with candy of all things? I always imagined it would be something like the lure of freedom or the power to go against the scientists who controlled my life. It had been a recurring fantasy of mine when I was younger. Using my birth father was a tactic I had never expected; partially because it was something I barely even cared about.

"Who are -" I managed to swerve out of the way of a skateboarder barelling down the halls.

"Get off of that thing before I pull you off! You f- you - Get back here!"

I dislike being interrupted. It's on my list of things I loathe, third to only being withheld information and being watched. "Who are you?" I repeated. I added a bit of a threat in my tone. It effectively caught his attention and his head swiveled back into my direction.

The hard anger on his face melted away like it hadn't even been there. Talk about a mood change. "Guess I didn't introduce myself, did I? I'm Cid, Cid Highwind. Just hired on as a conductor for this here school's orchestra." He didn't look like a musician; he looked a bit too well-built for that. "S'only part-time, I assure you. Er, well, this is awkward. Look, I've got this parcel addressed to you. If you drop by the orchestra room after school I can give it to ya'."

"No." My response was automatic. It's always been a strict rule that I return to the labs in the affiliated vans directly after school. There were no after-school activities or staying-after. Short of being trapped in a lockdown, I was out as soon as the last bell rung.

"Eh? Well, I guess it does sound kind of sketch when I think about it." Mr. Highwind scratched the back of his head as if to dissipate his awkwardness. "But I want you to think about it. I got the package after the accident. Like I said it's addressed to you." An electric chime sounded the end of passing period and Highwind waved me away. "Alright, get to class. Don't be late. But think about it."

There was no way to ignore his voice. It echoed against the empty halls and burned into my ears. I could even hear the stomp of his feet as he wandered away, grumbling about cigarettes.

Honestly I couldn't keep from thinking about it even if I tried. I did try for a while; until we were riled into a circle and asked to talk about our thoughts on the reading. I had plenty of thoughts, none of which the teacher would like to hear – other students had raised similar concerns about how poorly researched, biased, melodramatic, and sentimental the narrative was. It didn't help that the story followed the same plot of a girl meeting a boy and falling into a sickening love with each other. It was like reading the same exact piece of work again and a again. I've dubbed English Lit, like most classes, an experiment in patience.

I've never thought much about my father. I did once, when I was a child – perhaps 5. The nurses had been talking about their fathers. And, as a child, I had proceeded to ask them inane questions. When my inquisition led me to Hojo and Lucrecia. Lucrecia, kind soul that she is, detailed the process of conception for me. While the good doctor himself told me that my biological father died due to his incompetence. Even in my most ambitious projects to find out more, I was never given a clearer answer. I gave up within a year and never thought about it again.

Now I was suddenly given all the answers. Highwind claimed to be acquainted to my father; and he also knew about the mysterious accident that led to my father's untimely death. It all sounded like a poorly written mystery novel, but a mystery nonetheless. Did the circumstances of my birth have something to do with my current mental state? Schizophrenia could have been the result of any number of genetic combinations of my DNA, I've been led to understand, and my father may have influenced my DNA negatively. But then it brought about a new set of questions.

Who _was_ my father? What did he do when he was alive: a scientist, a soldier, a spy, or something so dreadfully inane that I can't even consider it? What was the accident that he died in? What did he look like? Do I look like him? Was that how Highwind knew I was his son?

I was getting too far ahead of myself with these questions. How could I even verify Highwind's story? For all I knew it was a conveniently packaged lie meant to lure me away. The man barely looked like a teacher – let alone a music teacher.

What was the package? Highwind had been very adamant about it, saying it was addressed to me from my deceased father, of all things. I could think of a few reasons for the package: a bomb, a body bag, maybe even a narcotic. No matter how I spun it, it all pointed to an elaborate kidnapping. I could think of some reasons too, ranging from the benign molestation to a more dangerous use of military weapons.

After years at the lab, I had learned to always question. I have also come to learn that every answer comes with a price. If I want to ask these questions, I need to be prepared for every possibility.

I had to mull, what was the worst possibility? Abuse? Mind control? Experimentation? Death? I've probably experienced everything but the last. Logically, on the list of horrible things that could happen, I could be manipulated into massacring civilians. Death, or the price of one incomplete super soldier, didn't seem so bad in comparison.

Especially when the truth was hovering in front of me. I hadn't cared a bit about my father an hour ago, but now he was all I could fill my mind with. Even if Highwind was preparing something heinous, I should still be able to glean something from him. If life as an experiment taught me anything, it was how to torture.

The day passed slowly after that. I haze of dreadful classes and I was back at the lab. If I hadn't been ushered into the room to get examined, I would have forgotten about the fresh skin on my arm.

"Make a fist," Lucrecia intoned. I obeyed. "Good. How does you hand feel?"

"Like always." I knew she liked more information than less; but I couldn't even tell the change. Super human healing was helpful. Did my father also have this trait? If he did, how could he have died? Unless he got beheaded, I find it hard to imagine a super human dying.

"V!" I started at my name through the cackle of the microphone. Lucrecia was staring at me hard through the glass. Rehabilitation was always through tempered glass; they lost good scientists any other way.

"I wasn't listening."

The door to the sealed room swished open. "You're distracted, V." Her sigh made me a bit ashamed. I've never been able to explain how much Lucrecia has done for me. I would hesitate to call her a mother or a sister or anything even remotely familial; but she was there, would give me freedoms and help me find my truths (perhaps smaller than I wanted, but they were there nonetheless).

Her cold hands reached around to remove the restraints of the chair. "What are you thinking about?" she asked me.

I've mastered lying to the assistants (and by that factor everyone I've ever met), but I've never managed one to Lucrecia or Hojo. Whenever they asked me a point-blank question like that, I felt obligated to tell the entire truth. I'm pretty sure I was trained to do that. That or I was brain washed. As far as I could tell, they were little different.

"I was thinking about my biological father."

"Oh?" The words gave her pause. I could tell she was waiting for me to supply more. "And why are you suddenly thinking about that?"

"Someone called me Valentine."

Lucrecia pulled back and studied me. It was strange look she gave me: not the normal, clinical examinations; but one a caring teacher might do when staring down their student. She was actually looking at me: not me the test subject, but me the human. It wasn't startling or thrilling; just odd. Very odd.

"I suppose you have begun to bear a strong resemblance to him."

"Really?" I couldn't stop the question. Could that mean that Highwind _actually_ knew my father?

Lucrecia gave me her practiced smile. I remember how we used to practice those when I was a child; perfectly manicured for the media (just in case I succeeded). "Your facial structure is quite similar. More than that your eyes are acquiring the same shade."

She seemed to be willing to answer some questions. I had a million running in my skull, but I knew she wouldn't answer all of them. The time frame to ask was always short and it always had to be on topic. Regarding my face... "My biological father also had red eyes?"

"Yes." She began to move forward once more, a signal to the end of her infinite patience.

"Is it a genetic trait?"

"It's possible." The harness on my wrist was replaced. It was the familiar gold brace that promised me I wouldn't have a good night's sleep tonight. It also signaled the end of question and answer time. "We'll be in Chamber 13 today." I followed her obediently. I still don't know why she bothers to say it. It's always Chamber 13.

There were twenty chambers in the laboratory. I've walked past all the others, but I always end up in 13. I've managed to look into a few; but I still haven't been able to determine why 13 has been my unofficial chamber. They all had those same white-washed walls, floors, and ceilings – like a padded cell. There was no way they didn't have any of the other hidden gadgets and gas releases I have become acquainted with either.

When I was sent into the chamber, it only meant one thing. The others were going to come out. I never really liked to think about the fact that I had whole other things living inside my head, but the scientists were convinced there were a lot of them. Three of them, if I remember correctly. I don't know if it was schizophrenia or split-personality disorder, but it always made me dizzy to think about. So I didn't. I just quietly obeyed. In the chamber, there were no visible windows, mirrors, cameras, or speakers; but I knew I was being watched. As always, I stared down at the gold wristband. I used to know what all the colors had meant, but they had changed the past few days; I don't know what gold means.

"V." Hojo's voice distracted me. "When you hear this sound -" mechanical bells chimed " - I want you to stand in the center of the room. Do you understand?"

"Yes." What followed was routine. I obediently stepped to the corners of the room when asked, and then returned to the center at the chime. The test was always a little different each time. It ranged from lifting an arm to saying something. I can only assume that I'm being tested against the others inside my head. Will I ever know?

I can hear the swish of the air vents as the gas spills into the room. I fell into a deep sleep.

**Project**: C

**Subject: **V

**Entry:** JV-6576

_Subject remains obedient. Cx-39 did not achieve desired result. Full-body resonance with subject no. 3 achieved. Subject no. 3 obedient. Forced resonance stop according to standard procedure._

It was another delightful day at school. I wish I could say that I woke up dreaming about my father like all those stories the literature teacher forces us to read; instead I woke up vomiting. The gauntlet seemed especially tight on me today, injecting more mystery drugs into my system. After the researchers had pried it off my arm, I could tell it was going to take days to heal. Whatever drugs were routinely injected through the gauntlet impeded my spectacular regeneration. So I was left with a swollen and bruised left arm. I was allowed to wear pain-reliving glove. I wondered why I couldn't, but I doubted I would get any answers.

Between picking at the latest hole in my memory and dealing with the mysteries of my father, I was too distracted to both with food. Instead, I leaned against a murky yellow wall and stared off into the distance. That was when I saw Highwind. He had seen me too.

The many worked his way across the expansive foyer, heading directly to me. A few students tried to draw him into their conversation as he drew close, but he – quite cleverly – avoided them. His practiced smile was levels above Lucrecia's. I wonder if he could teach me that.

"Vincent." It was surprising to be eye-level with him when I was leaning back as I was. A nice change of pace, I suppose. "Did you think about it?"

"I did."

Highwind waited there a few moments, as if he expected more. I don't like to mince words. "Well that's great. Come on."

While the teacher never grabbed me, I somehow felt as if I was being dragged behind him. We went down corridors I've never been to and through doors I'd never even seen. I made a mental note to take an opportunity to explore the school between classes. I hadn't even realized I knew so little of the school's layout. We eventually ended up in a cramped room full of filing cabinets and a small desk. Where stacks of paper weren't littering every imaginably surface, unfamiliar tools took up the remaining space.

Paper slipped from a stack somewhere. It would be a horrible way to die, suffocated in an avalanche of papers. I wonder if this was what the scientists' research might look like. It would be little wonder they never let me see it.

"Good thing I lugged it in here," Highwind chuckled as he maneuvered inside the narrow space to reach behind the desk. "I was hoping I would manage to get you to look at it." With a grunt, he lifted a box and laid it on the desk. "See, right here, addressed right to ya'."

The wooden box looked suspicious and aged. I worked my way around the stacks of paper on the ground and peered over the desk. On a faded label, where Highwind was pointing, was my name. It was written above an unfamiliar address and sent from an equally unfamiliar one. Above was my father's name. I had to admit, my birth name did look nice written out like that.

I wanted to open it. My fingers itched with the desire to rip the planks apart. The thought sounded fantastic; and that terrified me. I don't like carnage and chaos; it is, in fact, fourth on the list of things I hate.

"This was shipped to you?" I ran my ungloved hand alone the wood. It was warped here and there, but firm.

"Yup. 'Ole Grimoire sent it to my apartment." A crinkle in his eye told me he was thinking fond memories.

"Why?"

Highwind frowned. I could see his tongue rolling along his teeth. "I dunno. You see, I always wondered myself. I tried searchin' for ya' afterwards. But I never found you."

Apparently he needed a bit more clarity in the question. "Why your apartment? Why you?"

"Haha. Now _that's_ the mystery. I always figured it was 'cause I owed your old man something fierce. I never leave a debt unsettled. He probably figured on that. You woulda got this package sooner or later."

Too vague. All I had were his words and no solid proof about their connection. But something instinctual told me not to worry about it. It was clouding my mind when I could get answers. I really wanted to open the box. I couldn't explain why.

"So, you gunna open it or what? I've been holding onto it for eighteen years now. Gotta admit I'm kinda anxious myself."

I wish I could have resisted more at the sbutle jest. But it was enough to spur me into action. I start pulling at the box.

"I, uh, got a crowbar if you want me to -"

"No need." The box complained almost as loudly as my damaged hand. I flipped my head to remove the hair from my face. And soon, all to soon, the top of the box was removed.

"Oh, well. Ain't you a little super-soldier." You have no idea. I wanted to say it, but I was distracted by my prize.

We both looked down into the box. I reached in and pulled out – strangely enough – another box. It was almost oblong but largely rectangular, a little longer than my torso. A glance in Highwind's direction told me he recognized what it was. His eyes were sparkling with something. Resting the hard-backed case diagonally on the open box, I pulled the latches and opened it.

I don't know what I was expecting. But I never expected to be mesmerized.

What stared up at me was an instrument. A violin. The wood was black as if it had been charred, yet had a strange red hue in the light. At the head of the violin, the knob split into three elongated and curving scrolls. Like the three heads of a monster. The thought warmed my heart. And it also confused me. What was going on? Was this thing under some sort of spell? Did highwind cast something on me when I wasn't looking? A trap?

I kept tilting my head this way and that. But my eyes couldn't be pried away.

"Cerberus." Highwind breathed beside me. I almost stabbed him on instinct – luckily for him I didn't have any knives on me. I forgot he was there. His fingers were rubbing against a metal engraved in the red satin. "I ain't never seen a finer instrument. Didn't even know Griomore had one like this. Go ahead, pluck the strings."

I hesitated a moment before I ran a finger across the textured strings and pulled. The soft sound shouldn't have been impressive, but it sent a chill down my spine. I strummed the strings softly.

"Still in tune," the teacher whistled. "Now that's impressive."

The words seem to finally break the trance the instrument put on me. Something about what Highwind had said before bothered me. "What do you mean you didn't know my father 'had one like this'? Did he have others?"

The look the teacher gave me told me that I had just asked a stupid question. "He had three. Even let me touch one once. Ah, anyway, you should join the orchestra. If you're anything like 'ole Grimoire. Well, let's just say you'd be a natural."

Wait. The whole conversation just spiraled out of control. I'd heard of short attention spans but this was ridiculous. Highwind didn't elaborate on anything. It didn't help that if I so much as glanced at the violin on the table I was mesmerized. It took far too much effort to grind out my next question. "My father was a musician?"

"You didn't know?" I simply offered a shake of my head, I didn't want to do anything more. "Damn shame. He was one of the finest violinists I met. A real inspiration too. You must have been young when he died..." Highwind looked off, as if calculating the years.

I did too. I should be about 17. But... hadn't Highwind said something about having the package for 18 years? Could I have been born after my father died? "I probably wasn't born."

"No, no, no. I coulda sworn... nah, you're probably right." I didn't like the way he paused there. The teacher cleared his throat again. "So, what do you say about joining the orchestra?"

"No." I didn't have to think long. Regardless of my opinion, my guardians wouldn't be as enkindled as Highwind was at the prospect.

"You didn't even think 'bout it. Just give it a shot, Valen – er... Vincent." I didn't miss the way he stumbled on my name. I wondered if I were really that similar to my father. It was always hard to judge something that I had never seen.

"Why should I?"

"Well, fer one, you already got a violin. That means you don't even have to go out an pay fer one. 'Sides, music is good for the soul. No? No. Look, how much do you know about music? Not a lot, I'm guessin'. You know how to play an instrument? Thought not. Then consider it a learning experience. If all else fails, I'll just tell ya' stories about your pops. How's that sound?"

I was unconvinced. But the last part of the deal was tempting. A distant chime sounded the end of lunch. "I'll think about it."

"Hey, Valen- damnit – Vincent! What about yer violin?"

I looked back, already halfway out the door. I hadn't bothered to close the case, and the black wood glittered temptingly. "I can't take it with me. You can hold onto it for a while longer."

Even as the door shut, I heard a colorful string of curses come from the old man's mouth. It should have been easier to look away. After all, it was just a violin.


End file.
